Above it all hovered a grey sky. Billowing and shifting, the clouds bore a sort of darkness to them despite there being no rain. Because it was dusk, many may not have been able to discern the subtle difference between the increasing black of night and the subtle grey of a cloudy sky. Just enough light filtered through, however, to make the difference in color apparent to glowing eyed observers, casting a gloomy sense over what remained a joyous occasion for the majority.
The cyclones raged in the background as the last of the hive spires was struck by magical starfall, shattering it to pieces as a funnel of air cast the formerly living chunks all the way out to sea. The tall pine trees of the north Azsharan peninsula swayed in the naturally invoked storm and the moon magic of the priestesses lit up the early evening sky with their bright arcs of raw, non-arcane energy ripping the remains of the silithid structures to shreds. The scene was like a symphony, it was beautiful, and completely wasted on such a somber time and place. What had begun as a pitched battle and then degenerated into a clusterfuck of mostly young, unprepared soldiers on their first proper military campaign ended with a bang. Ground shaking, wind whipping and chunks flying, the entire hive complex was ripped apart off in the distance, and even many of the regular enlistees who had fled to tend to their wounds ran back into the thick of it, hacking and slashing in their renewed fervor as the last of the silithids gave up the fight and tried to flee. Cleanup crews chased the cowardly insectoids around, reveling in their impunity as they used the thick carapaces as target practice.
Once the starfall and cyclones stopped, the surviving wasps rained down onto the battlefield like confetti as the remaining hippogriff riders landed to partake in chasing around the fleeing silithid workers. The reavers and scarabs didn't stand a chance against the victorious Sentinels and mercenaries, merely leading them on wild goose chases across the valley as the met their end at the hands of night elves blowing off some steam. Even Commander Lamia, bruised and injured after having waded into the tides of battle herself, hurried toward the center of the valley to direct the final sweep, perhaps reliving some sort of revenge fantasy for friends and loved ones lost during the campaign in Silithus a thousand years before. Try as she might, the younger troops had broken formation and didn't heed her calls to rally and let the Air Force clean up the silithid stragglers in order for the casualties to be tended to; though she'd likely be issuing a number of punishments and reprimands later, the younger soldiers temporarily ran out of earshot just to cut down the last fleeing scarab.
Cheers broke out all around despite the presence of fleeing silithids and fallen comrades in need of emergency healing. All around them, the soldiers celebrated as if the battle hadn't been a complete disaster for a military power that prided itself on fighting at a distance and avoiding casualties as much as possible. Were this the Alliance or the Horde, the break in formation and the independent operation of numerous units would have been of as little a problem as the loss of brave comrades during war. For the Sentinels, it simply didn't live up to their perfectionist standards even if they got the job done and suffered 'only' twenty lost comrades or so.
Given the fact that less than five percent of the troops actually died, everyone except the healers and those who lost someone close appear to be in high spirits, leaving the support classes to tend to their relatively low amount of losses toward the center of the battlefield. No rain fell, but the gloomy clouds almost seemed to break apart, raining flaky but cooled off embers onto the ground that only one lone shadow hunter could, apparently, detect.
Surrounded by unnatural trenches and potholes dug by trampling colossi and blasts of the wrathful balance, two figures lied helplessly on the blood soaked ground. There may or may not have been more troops marching past to finish off the wounded, straggling silithids on the field - neither of them would have noticed. Not at such a time.
The embers were cold to the touch, cooled pieces of dark cloud as they drifted toward the ground. One by one they floated around, coating the ground like a colorless layer of dust. Vague figures moved around them, hoving in and out of view to the command of battle shouts like phantoms on a plane unreachable. Streams of grey rippled through the air, accentuating the dust kicked up by the sabres and the tauren so rapidly that it didn't even have time to settle. Several more dark figures like them dotted the landscape, living out their own experiences of loss as the minority - those who hadn't made it, those who had laid their lives down so a city days away could sleep easily - bore the inevitable burden of war. Fair but unfair, fate proved neither cruel nor benevolent that night, but rather unfeeling; unfeeling, uncaring and entropic.
Leather knee pads dug into the bloody mud to gain traction as manaburned muscles strained to shove the dead reaver corpses out of the way. The insectoid husks easily tumbled to the side, forming a little fort of corpses in addition to the blanket of dust that all could see and the coat of ashes that nobody else could detect. A sinking weight like an ethereal wrecking ball threatened to break though the ground and drag the shadow hunter into whatever hell awaited below, a prospect that didn't seem half bad as he sought the remains of his paladin. Trembling hands wedged themselves in between chitinous carapace and cold thorium as they worked their way to get a good grip without causing any more damage. Scooping her up, he could feel the shallow breaths and the lack of shivering or even wincing in pain as he ignored the pain inside and out to pull her closer to him. Through the ember laden air, he could see the faint glow of two golden orbs telling him that somehow, some way, there was a flicker of life left. It was weak, it was fading, it was without hope, but it was still there.
Sliding her up his thighs as he continued to crouch deep into the mud, he laid what was left of her diagonally across his legs as absolute terror, a bone crushing panic unlike anything else he'd felt before, pushed him over the edge of numbness. The ice box that was his chest stung him with its freezer burn as he intentionally plunged, too much of a coward to face his own emotions. Whether she had reacted the same or was simply more accepting than him, he did not know, but she displayed no outward feelings herself as her still living remains reclined into the seat formed by his thighs. Letting all her muscles go limp, she looked up at him and said nothing, waiting for him to perform all her movements for her. Flashbacks of scrubbing her off in the shower like she were some spoilt princess threatened to bring back that dreadful concept known as feelings and he quickly blocked them out, trying to detach himself from the blood, gore and innards spilling out onto his knees.
Her lower body slumped facing the opposite direction, her hooves pointing toward them. Her legs, crotch and hips all remained intact, and the clean cut at the top of her lower body thankfully faced away from them, sparing him a sight that he knew would cause his heart to palpitate and stop beating right then and there. Her torso, arms, shoulders and head were all unblemished aside from the few puncture holes the large reavers had impossible managed to punch through her plate armor. Down at the end of her waistline and what was left of her upper body, there was a cut through her armor and herself so clean that there was less blood than he'd seen during other acts of dismemberment during wars he'd participated in in the past. Unable to look, he merely held his free hand by the point where she'd been ripped into two separate halves, cradling her head with the other. Despite the literal, physical pain in his entire body associated with depleting one's mana reserves entirely, some strange voodoo miracle took place and he found himself able to charge one last futile heal spell. Searing the sliced organs, spinal cord and flesh closed with the light side of his dualistic school of magic, he increased her suffering but bought precious time to see her one last time; a selfish yet fitting recompense that formed a sort of role reversal for the both of them.
Shaky yet careful hands delicately unhooked the latches on her impenetrable helmet-mask combination, allowing her to breathe just a little bit more air into quickly dying lungs. The helmet featured two holes for her one and a half horns; once it was latched and locked shut, it could not be removed, but once it was opened it easily popped off. As if knowing she'd need to reserve every iota of her energy if she wanted to live long enough to speak to him, she didn't even bother lifting her head to assist him as he removed her helmet and simply allowed him to take it off himself. Gold flickered once more as he watched the life fade from her by yet another level, and even the pores of her forehead and scalp stopped sweating despite the obviously high temperature beneath a tightly enclosing helmet. Her natural black locks mixed with the pink and yellow dye like an incomplete rainbow, complementing every part of her that was missing its wholeness in some way or form. Opposite parts felt like they'd been ripped out of him, and all he could do was watch the other half that completed him as a being slip away.
The back of her neck felt cold to the touch, but she didn't cough or shiver. Her hands laid over her head slightly as they had when sprawled out on their bedrolls so many nights together in the tent, but her limpness reminded him that there was nothing passionate about the last moment they'd ever share. Smashed by a giant mallet by the sense of loss, he screamed at himself internally to tell her something, anything, before he'd never be able to tell her off again. Those two beautifully imperfect eyes looked up into his, examining him as if she had not a care or distraction in the world. One of her eyes had always been slightly higher than the other if one got close enough to inspect her face, but the fact that the horn on the same side had been cracked and half of it broken off accentuated the feature, balanced out the asymmetry and not only made it unnoticeable but more beautiful than had everything been even. Without even noticing what he was doing, he began to run his thumb along that perfectly imperfect cracked horn, feeling the ridges one last time. A flagrant display of affection, the cooled ashes that coated the battlefield blotted out all sound and floated like dust motes around the little pit of silithid corpses he'd dug, protecting them from prying eyes.
Working her muscles despite her exhaustion, one side of her lip curled up into what could almost be described as an exhausted smile as the sensation of his thumb running along her lovely asymmetry. The size able dip between her septum and her upper lip twitched, and he fought to avoid thumbing it was well, wanting to reach out to her yet not knowing how. There were mere precious seconds left before they were both gone forever: her in body and him in soul. They would both die together in their own way, and instead of seeming romantic, there was nothing but the crushing depression of refusal to accept the inevitable.
What he could realistically ask her, he did not know. He could ask her about her real age; she was as likely to lie as to tell the truth, even during her last moments. He could ask if she had planned to move on with him after the campaign, and she lived; of course she'd tell him yes no matter what her actual plans had been. His mind reeled as one possibility after another popped up and was shot down in the span of only half a second, and he found himself empty handed and without defense mechanisms. Stripped bare, his naked vulnerability broke through, recognizing the futility of hiding.
When Navarion tried to speak the first time, he found his throat too sticky and his nose too congested, and he went cross eyed as he urked the words out. "I'm sorry," was all he could say at first, feeling the idiocy of his own words, the vanity of interrupting her solemnity but the guilt over potentially saying nothing at all.
Lying with finesse in the way only she could, Zhenya nearly smirked up at him. "It's okay," she replied, muffling her wince as he sniffled and tried to contain himself.
For sure, most of her stomach and intestines had fallen out when the reaver's jaws clamped around her forcefully enough to break themselves along with her armor, but she didn't react in pain. She'd likely gone into system shock and felt very little, yet he had enough of his sixth sense about him to know that her mind remained lucid. Fully aware of her surroundings and his close embrace, she didn't seem to be in a rush despite her life bleeding out of her, content to be held when she'd so cruelly rejected his embrace during life countless times before. Not even after sex did she allow him to hold her like this; whether she let him now due to true affection for him and him alone, or simply fear of death and the desire to be held by anybody available, he would never know. More likely than not, she didn't even know herself. But none of that mattered. Not anymore.
Conscious but dizzy, he swallowed a bit of her own blood in order to clear her throat enough to speak. A gaze so caring that he almost couldn't believe it was her looked back up at him, and he knew that the time had come; the few seconds they had were borrowed as a result of him injuring his spirit by casting himself into negative mana anyway.
"I'm sorry, too," she coughed, and he felt his abdominal muscles tear from the force of her effect on him. "For everything."
Those words, too little too late, ripped into him regardless and he found himself reveling in finally hearing them as much as he wished she had left her own selfishness aside just one time and left him without the last words that would haunt him forever.
Not even knowing why, he laughed while coughing, finding humor in their miserable situation. Swallowing whatever was in his throat and sinuses down and bearing the sickening nausea in order not to lose whatever seconds they had left, he forced himself to talk despite choking. "Whatever happened between us...it's forgiven. I only hope you feel the same," he whispered, seeing nothing but her face and hearing nothing but her voice, ignoring even the stench of ash raining down on them.
Nodding her approval, her body shuddered and he knew she was in the throes of death. So many times had he held dying comrades who had been too greviously injured to be saved, even with resurrection spells. But never had he lost someone like this; not like this.
Blood dripped from her mouth down her chin, and he leaned down close to wipe it off and listen, knowing this was their last chance to share themselves. The glow of her eyes began to fade, but she remained conscious and clear the whole time, not falling into the delirium before death experienced by so many.
"I have no...living family," she breathed out, not pausing for fear of losing her chance to complete her last words. "I have no home...no possessions. I leave...nothing behind...except you." Her words echoed through his mind, and he found himself hypnotized, numb beyond the point of even feeling his pain. "I have slept...with...many men before...but..."
The glow mostly dissipated and the whites of her eyes began to reveal themselves. Her irises were still gold, but the shine that signified the power of a being who could live thousands of years escaped her, leaving her to be claimed by mortality. All emotion left her face as the muscles that controlled her expressions gave out, and she seemed unable to even blink. His throat and lungs crystallized as he stood still even if cruel time refused to, and for the first time he could look her in the eye uninhibited by the glow.
"...you're the only one I truly made love to."
Popping his back in a way that was unhealthy, he hunched over the remaining half of her, wanting, needing to savor what he could before she left him. One last time, his lips brushed hers, and for a second the warmth remained there. In spite of having so little fight left, she found it in her to respond ever so slightly, and they kept their eyes open as they kissed deeply. Paralyzed and unable even to cry, he found her head moving away from his as she leaned back into his arm, gazing up at him the entire time. Kicking himself for his inability to reply with anything meaningful, he had to suffice by gazing back, sparing her the gruesome sights of the battlefield and ensuring he was the last thing she saw. A part of him whispered that her words weren't entirely well thought out, or that it was more of the usual dishonesty from her; not so much because he doubted her but because he found himself floored by such a claim, that of all the people she'd been with - quite a few by her stories - he had been the last and most significant. Still another part of him wanted so badly to believe it, and to think that his bruised feelings and wounded heart - bruised and wounded by her so many times - were reciprocated even if she'd been unable to admit it in life.
Already limp in his arms and the glow faded from her eyes, there was little change save the sensation of her soul passing on, tickling his arms and chest as it left her body. There was no point crooking his neck around to see it; he'd witnessed death and practiced his voodoo enough to know that such a thing wasn't possible. The soul of a living being couldn't simply be viewed in that way, not under normal circumstances. Instead, he savored the final sensation of her pressed against him as it moved in but fixated on those beautiful eyes the whole time. Far too limp to even move, her hands lied cold inside her armor, never to caress his mane or dig into his shoulders again. That feeling of her soul passing was the last of Zhenya that Navarion would ever know, and when she finally did pass on, he felt as if he hadn't savored the moment enough.
A cloudless sky devoid of any grey revealed the stars as dusk turned to nightfall. Alone on the battlefield after most of the other casualties had already been moved for burial, a grieving man held half of a slain woman in his arms, rocking her back and forth and adjusting her hair until it was perfect. All the other healers kept their distance out of respect, averting their gazes to give the exposed couple some semblance of privacy as he whispered to her his goodbye; too little, too late.